


Nobody knows but my burdened, old soul.

by youngjusticewriter



Series: All my (way too many) time travel fics in one spot. [5]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alchemist!Riza, Gen, Riza-centric, Time Travel, vaguely implied child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-23 09:36:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16156406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youngjusticewriter/pseuds/youngjusticewriter
Summary: Her palms become fists, short (practical, bitten) nails digging into her palms that sting from the action just as her back stings. If Riza is to do this she might make the outcome worse; she might even die (unless she makes herself irreplace-).That last outcome is unacceptable (Riza has been many things over the years - some of those things she never wanted - but she tries not to be a hypocrite) while the first is probable. But Riza can not be stagnant for what is to come; she has lost that right ever since Ishval or rather what will become of Ishval if she doesn't change things.





	Nobody knows but my burdened, old soul.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wanderinghooves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderinghooves/gifts).



Hands, young and soft things, reach behind her head to gather her hair...except it's cut short; it's a habit, Riza knows, and habits are hard to break. Thankfully only Roy is the one who catches this quirk (tell) of hers. 

(Her younger self, a jaded but polite girl instead of blood stained and dutiful soldier, had always kept her blonde hair short for years ever since she learnt how to. Riza herself had kept hers long but gathered in a clip during her working hours for years now. Ever since Ishval actually.) 

Riza lowers her hands after untangling her fingers from her short locks of hair. The palms are facing her, the back of her hands press against her worn but sowed presentable skirt. Riza can see her chest expanding as she breathes softly in and then out. The air - her room, this house - is cold and she will not panic despite the feeling climbing towards her heart; one can feel fear, but what matters is what they do with it, Riza consoles herself. 

Her palms become fists, short (practical, bitten) nails digging into her palms that sting from the action just as her back stings. If Riza is to do this she might make the outcome worse; she might even die (unless she makes herself irreplace-). That last outcome is unacceptable (Riza has been many things over the years - some of those things she never wanted - but she tries not to be a hypocrite) while the first is probable. But Riza can not be stagnant for what is to come; she has lost that right ever since Ishval or rather what will become of Ishval if she doesn't change things. 

There is no gun in the house that Riza can practice on she might begin to become the marksmen - the Hawk's eye, her father's name made her own in Ishval - she once was. Why would there be? This is the home of an alchemist and an alchemist doesn't need a weapon - they are the weapon. If there's a weapon in this house it would be only used against him, Riza knows with absolute certainty. (The nails dig further, her knuckles become as white as the dolls, that neither dusty nor worn from a child's touch, that watch her with empty eyes.) 

That and while bullets do work on the homunculi they tend to run out before the monster's stolen lives do in Riza's experience. 

Riza's blue eyes (young but tired things) flicker to her lap - to her hands and the patched together skirt below them. 

Riza then knows her plan. There are things that need to be smoothed out, but she knows (she knows, she knows, she only knows).

**Author's Note:**

> ...I probably will write more in the future. I just don't know if it will be a second chapter or a sequel.


End file.
